For millennia the blazing heart of our own little bubble of the universe had kept beating, enforcing reality as we know it onto a cosmos that was filled with things and beings that are alien, strange and horrifying kindred of our own that we had done so much for to forget. Who would have wanted to believe that there were forces at play we could neither see nor understand, that there were layers of reality deep below what we could see, an ever turning mass of gears and clockwork that kept the world going, a hidden core below the core of our world, blazing with a hot that came not by molten rock and iron, but by magic and science combined into a strange ancient beast that was both divine and infernal at once. No: our very world is ever moving onwards, a few ticks here and there, a small hick-up from one century to the next, but haven’t we believed firmly that it would continue ever onward in its days? There are those stories in which humanity was formed by clay, shaped from wood or cast in iron – as if our creators were potters, carpenters or sculpture. Mechanical dolls are a source of wonders to us, mechanical clocks fascinate even centuries after their technology had been made obsolete and the turning of gears still holds a fascination in the human mind that makes us want to touch, to understand to – to wind up the mechanism and watch as it begins to click and clack away in perfectly order, gear reaching into gear flawlessly. Yogini Rituparna, Calcutta, Autumn 1855.
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